


Might Get Me Somewhere

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Family, Cameo from another canon, Canonical Character Death, Clint’s having a bad day, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Phil might come back, Though who knows, White Collar reference, just not in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:09:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: Natasha has a vast and... colorful skill set.It just so happens to include making comfort food and cuddling when the situation calls for it.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	Might Get Me Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> Staying inside, lying in bed  
> Noticing something that's not there  
> Follow my heart, follow my head  
> I'll follow anything that might get me somewhere  
> -Big Bad World One, Jonathan Coulton
> 
> Rodnoy: Basically ‘brother’.

“You look awful.”

He does, too; though not really more than the normal amount of awful, face banged up and fingers bandaged, except for the tightness around the eyes. 

He flips her off from where he’s buried in the common room couch and goes back to nursing his beer.

Natasha studies him for a moment; it takes her longer than it should to figure it out. 

He’s just back from a three week op in Bogata; she had kept up on the reports and everything had gone off without a hitch, so why is he—

Bogata. 

The last time he had been in Columbia had been with Coulson. Before he—

Before. 

She sees it now, even though he’s trying to hide it from her, he hasn’t been taking care of himself; he’s been living off coffee and protein bars and too little sleep. 

“Hate everyone, or everyone hates you?”

He half shrugs in that way that means ‘both’ and ‘let me wallow in my misery, for I am the king of doom and gloom’.

“Okay, food then nap. Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll make that awful macaroni and cheese you like.”

He looks mulish.

“I’ll add hot dogs,” he still needs a little push, “And I won’t say a word about the ketchup.”

“Call it right,” he says, and she knows she’s won. 

“You’re not even Canadian.”

He harrumphs deeper into the couch and she rolls her eyes so hard they could see it from space, just to be sure Clint catches it. 

“ _Fine_. Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll make that awful Kraft Dinner you like.”

“And?”

She sighs loudly, knowing it will amuse him, “And I’ll cut up some hot dogs.”

He eyes her suspiciously and she says, “And I’ll even put the damn ketchup on myself. Now move your butt.”

His sigh is more heartfelt than hers had been, but he levers himself out of the sarlacc pit he’s made for himself between the couch cushions.

He doesn’t say anything from where he sits at the kitchen counter, just picks at the beer bottle’s label, staring at it like it’s got the answers to the universe. 

She chatters about all the Tower gossip, innocuous things to try to get him to laugh. It doesn’t work.

She didn’t think it would but she had to try. 

He doesn’t even look up when she sets the disgusting mess he calls food in front of him; just picks up the fork and shovels in bite after bite mechanically. 

Clint finishes his beer and she uses a fresh one to lure him back to his pit, this time curling up next to him and pulling an oversized blanket over their laps.

The TV is still on, same show; looks like an Antiques Roadshow marathon and so she leaves it. 

His beer stays on the end table and he rests his head on her shoulder, “I—,” he cuts himself off. 

“I know, _rodnoy._ I know.”

They watch a few more episodes when Tony comes into the room, grease smudging his forehead and coming off of a four day engineering bender; something about sonic disruption and plate tectonics. Nothing past the fiddly bits, so nothing to be concerned about yet.

She gives him a death glare, hoping to send him away where he can’t break the bubble she’s put up around Clint, but he just smiles weakly, from exhaustion, not fear, and when he flops down next to her and pulls some of the blanket over his legs she gives up on ever being able to intimidate the man again. 

Something other than disappointment takes up residence in her chest, and she carefully doesn’t examine it. 

About twenty minutes in, Tony says, “Oh, no way. No one just _finds_ a Gloucester in a storage unit. It can’t possibly be worth that much.”

“More,” Clint says from where he’s been dozing.

“More?”

“Yeah. S’not a Gloucester original. It’s a Caffrey.”

“A Caffrey? Why have never heard of Caffrey? Do I need Pepper to get me one?”

“Good luck. He’s a forger. Been in the wind for years.”

“Bullshit. You’re messing with me now; no way you could tell that it’s a forgery when Nichol couldn’t.”

“You just have to know what to look for. Cocky bastard never can resist signing his work.”

“Seriously?”

“Here,” Clint says, scrambling out of the couch and taking the recording back until he freezes on a full screenshot of the painting. He traces out Neal’s signature.

“I need one.”

“Good luck; they’re hard to come by.”

“Don’t you still have a contact for him?” Natasha asks, slipping off to make them some popcorn but keeping an ear out to make sure Clint doesn’t relapse. 

“I— yeah, okay. I can reach out, but don’t expect much.”

“I want an original original.”

Clint huffs a laugh, “Greedy.”

Natasha smiles. He’s going to be fine.

~One Month Later~

“Oh my God, I love it,” Tony says.

“Of course you do; it’s a painting of you,” Natasha says dryly, but she had to admit, it is gorgeous. 

It’s a view from a New York penthouse patio, somewhere with a stunning vista of the skyline, and Iron Man streaking out through the clouds, sunlight glinting off the armor. 

“Hey. Wait,” Tony says, “It isn’t signed.”

“Sure it is,” Clint says, “Right here,” he points out a line of clouds trailing out behind Iron Man.

Tony squints for a minute, and then reads, “‘ _Now_ we’re even- NC’; ‘even’? What does he mean ‘even’?”

Clint mime’s sealing his lips and throwing away the key.

“Oh come _on_ ,” Tony wheedles, “Give me a hint? You… shot someone for him, right?”

Clint laughs, walking backwards and shooting finger guns and it’s a miracle he doesn’t fall over his untied shoelaces, “Like Caffrey, not even close.”

Tony turns his big brown puppy dog eyes to Natasha but they won’t work on her. She is made of sterner stuff.

“You know, don’t you?”

She gives him her most innocent expression; not the one that looks _too_ innocent, the one that says, ‘I don’t know because I don’t care’, “I really don’t.”

He quirks his head like a bird, “I can’t tell if you’re lying.”

She smiles like a shark, “Good.”

He smiles back and for some reason she can’t read him. He leans down and kisses her cheek, “Fraud. I’m going to go ply Barton with fancy cars and expensive booze; you can come with, if you want; you can keep him honest.”

“I always do. But I want the Corvette.”

“You get him to talk, it’s yours.”

“He doesn’t stand a chance.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please let me know if you see any typos. :)


End file.
